by Rosalie Ham
She emptied the melted packet of peas in a pot of water and set it aside for lunch. Then she wrenched open the frosty door of her tiny, ice-choked freezer and worried a packet of frozen corn kernels from the icy womb, holding it over her ruined face as she washed and dressed, relying on the solid friendliness of fixed objects to support her. She dragged on her knee-highs, reached down into the dark wardrobe for her Sunday shoes, her head reeling and her breakfast churning in her stomach. Again, when she set the table, for two people instead of three, she stopped to cling to the chair while she wept, her face screwing so that it hurt, her foundation make-up and powder leaving dried watercourses down her creased face.
Mercifully, when she plodded carefully around her tiny front yard she found only a half-full bottle of whisky sitting in the centre of her footpath where someone had rested it to piss up against her side fence.
After Margery prepared the vegetables, she sat down at her kitchen table and, holding her broken glasses over the writing pad, wrote to Morris:
Dear Son, I am always pleased to get your postcards, and I am pleased that you are well. All well here.
I’m sad to have to inform you that Mrs Parsons died and her funeral is today. You know you always have a home here and that you will always be my son, no matter what. They’ve knocked down Mrs Bist’s house and are building a new one. Pat is in a home now and Kevin’s hobby these days is bicycle riding. I had been doing Mrs Parsons’ laces for fifteen years. As you know, she had arthritis. Our weather did not suit her bones. Life can be unfair, and ‘every path has its puddle’. Always your loving mother, x
It was an emotional, honest letter compared to Margery’s usual cards: All well here, the weather has been hot. Judith’s new business is booming and she and Pud dropped in just last Sunday. Walter is the manager now at the hostel. That’s all for now, love, Mum. She folded the page neatly, slid it into an envelope and propped it against the salt cellar. Walter would copy out the address and post it. She sat looking at the envelope and eventually felt strong enough to go to the front gate where she stood, her old hand cupped tightly over the gatepost. Eventually, Walter came striding along the street, his best suit folded over his arm again. He carried a frozen chook, newspaper and a brand-new shirt, still in its square plastic wrap. ‘One thousand and one days, Mumsy,’ he said brightly, but he stepped from one foot to the other, clicking his thongs on his feet.
‘One thousand and two days,’ she said. ‘An achievement if ever there was one. How are you, Walter dear?’
‘Every day is a new day. Got another shiner?’
‘Door blew in the breeze and caught the side of my face. It’s nothing.’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ Walter said.
‘Tell me how you are, son.’
‘I’ve been better.’ He jerked his head towards Mrs Parsons’ house, and Margery patted his arm and said, ‘Another sad day, son.’ Inside, Margery put the frozen chook in the freezer for next week, turned the potatoes and pumpkin, and while Walter set the table she lit the flame under the peas.
‘How’s Pat after her fall?’
‘Pat’s alright, but Mr McNickle didn’t recover as well. How’s the course?’
He dug the syllabus out from his shorts and gave it to her. It was in limp pieces, worn through along the folds. ‘We just did Cleaning and Sanitation. You must always use disinfectant strictly according to the instructions on the bottle, Mumsy. You see, it’s created to have maximum effect according to the proportions scientifically calculated, and if you put too much in it diminishes that scientific effect. Builds up over time to a sort of film. Understand?’
‘I do.’
‘Next we do Pest Control and Waste Disposal.’
‘Any notices about Mrs Parsons?’
Walter opened his newspaper to the death notices. ‘The nuns have put one in.’ He read out loud to Margery, ‘“Parsons,” um . . .’
Margery took the paper from him, ‘“Euphemia Poinciana”, lovely name, “Nineteen twelve to two thousand and nine. Blessed is everyone that feared the Lord, That walketh in his ways. RIP.” Mrs Parsons had no need to fear any so-called Lord. She would never have sinned. Never.’
‘She came to all our concerts when we were kids.’ Behind the newspaper Margery saw tears dropping down onto Walter’s guernsey.
‘Sent you flowers when you were in the hospital.’
‘A bunch of lavender.’
‘From her own hedge.’
‘From her own hedge.
Then Margery strained the peas while Walter made the gravy, and when he turned to go and get Mrs Parsons, he realised again that she wasn’t there and sat at the table and put his face in his arms on the table. As he cried, his big, hairy shoulders jumped, shaking the table and making Margery’s heirloom salt cellar rock alarmingly. When he’d recovered, he blew his nose and they ate lunch in silence. Once, during lunch, Margery dozed off, and Walter tapped her plate with his spoon to wake her.
Kevin watched Anita park her silver 1970 XY GT Falcon outside Mrs Ahmed’s house in one reverse action. He moved across to the other side of the window to get a better view. Anita paused at Margery’s gate to stub out her cigarette against the gatepost, then she took something from her pocket and rubbed it onto her arm, stepped over the remains of Margery’s front fence and paused again to tuck the cigarette butt under a loose paving stone and went straight inside without knocking. He heard her call, ‘Anyone home?’ and then he rushed to shower, dress, and get over to Margery’s.
When he heard Anita’s voice, Walter froze, his spoonful of chicken and peas half way to his mouth. He wanted to be standing up, tall, dark and handsome against the white fridge, in command of the house, like a man, his strong, lovely arms folded across the black and white stripes of the best football team in Australia, but she was suddenly there, small and neat, wearing a nurse’s uniform, and he was eating peas from a spoon.
She didn’t even look at him, just put her plastic basket on the table next to him, focussed on Margery’s face, which looked like a watercolour left out in the rain. ‘Jesus! What happened to you?’
‘The door swung in the breeze. Walter will put a hook on the wall for me, won’t you, Walter?’
‘There’s not a single door in this house that swings, Mrs Blandon.’
Margery contemplated something on the back of her hand, then confessed, ‘Actually, it was the phone. It rang in the night.’
‘Shit, look at your shin.’ She put her hands on her hips and sighed. ‘You alright?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Margery.
Walter was still staring, and he stared at Anita for a further two full seconds until Margery said, ‘Walter!’
‘Job’s right.’
‘I know I’m not meant to be here today,’ she explained. ‘I’m actually on my way to see Mrs Razic, but your mum’s got a bit of a shin issue going on and we don’t want it to ulcerate.’
‘Certainly not, Anita.’ He was on his feet now, his serviette hanging from the neck of his guernsey, his adoring eyes drinking her in, moving around her face from her eyes to her lips, her hair . . .
‘Now, Mrs Blandon, you all set to face the funeral?’ but she didn’t wait for an answer. She started tidying the roasting pan and stacking lunch dishes, saying, ‘Let’s see if we can do something with your hair,’ and, ‘Perhaps we’ll rustle up a hat or scarf.’ When Margery stood, she winced in pain, and Anita suggested they cut a hole in her new slipper to release the constricted toe and its corn, but Margery refused. Walter had given her the slippers.
‘I get her a new pair every Christmas,’ Walter said. ‘They’re sturdy, got the zip up the front, but if you feel you have to cut a hole in them, Anita, if it’ll help . . .’ So Margery’s toes were set free. Then she sat Margery on the edge of the bath and Walter watched her tenderly remove his mother’s dressing, g
ently swabbing it away, dabbing at the coagulated blood, wiping away the slough. She basted the raw hole with saline solution, smoothed some cream over the pink, weeping flesh, expertly applied a new dressing and wrapped the limb, around and around, securing a wad of soft protective bandage. Walter said. ‘I’m deeply grateful that you’re caring for Mumsy in such a considerate and capable way. It’s very . . . inspiring.’ He straightened his left leg and tugged the hem of his shorts.
‘If this gets infected she could end up needing a skin graft.’
‘Fair statement,’ Walter said, and crossed his arms, pushing his biceps out.
‘I’m not going to hospital,’ Margery said.
‘You won’t have to go with Anita looking after you,’ Walter declared, taking the opportunity to place his hand on Anita’s shoulder. She was firm and warm, and her small, female bones moved under her skin.
‘Heard from Barry about the house repairs?’ she said, moving from his touch.
‘I think Barry should dig the holes for the stumps with his fat tongue, dip his nuts in paint and crawl all over the house.’
Anita laughed, which made Walter laugh, too loudly and too long at his own joke.
While she sat on the stoop drinking tea, longing for a cigarette, Walter leaned against the clothesline and explained he was going to sing a song at Mrs Parsons’ funeral.
‘Walter’s a very good singer,’ Margery said.
‘What are you singing, “Return to Sender”?’
‘“You Were Always On My Mind”,’ Walter said, failing to recognise Anita’s joke. ‘You may not know, Anita, but I’m a champion boxer.’
‘An athlete,’ Margery said.
‘I noticed the trophies.’
‘As you can see, I’m not just a pretty face.’
‘I can see that.’ Anita looked at her watch.
‘Right,’ Walter said, ‘we’d better get organised,’ and went to get changed.
As Anita put the finishing touches to Margery’s bruises with foundation make-up, she asked if Margery was going to say a few words at her friend’s service. ‘Not much point since she’s dead now.’
Walter came back, struggling to button up his suit jacket, the top three buttons of his shirt undone and his St Sebastian medal hanging against his singlet.
Margery told him he couldn’t go to Mrs Parsons’ funeral with his underwear showing, so Walter got the kitchen scissors, sliced the front of his singlet down to his navel and folded it back under his shirt. His small silver medal rested snugly in the nap of his manly chest.
‘Purple suits him, don’t you think?’ Margery said, and Anita replied, ‘It goes with his haircut.’ Walter wasn’t sure if it was an insult, but he said thank you anyway.
Kevin arrived dressed respectfully in black: smart black shorts and a black Polo shirt, socks and sandals, his moustache neatly combed and his crew cut glistening with some sort of perfumed product. He stood next to Anita, who was on her knees polishing Margery’s shoes at the time. She turned and looked straight at the fly of his nicely ironed shorts. He stared down at her. ‘That car of yours is a vintage car, did you know? If you like I can take you along to a car club and we could –’
‘It’s a machine that gets me from one client to the next, that’s all.’
‘I don’t really care about cars either,’ said Walter, leaning over Anita possessively.
‘Christ,’ Kevin said, staring at Margery, ‘that’s a decent shiner.’ He also leaned down over Anita, pretending to watch her bandage Margery’s shin. ‘I think I know where I’ve seen you. You’re an actress?’
She stood up, pointed to her letterbox-red hair and said, ‘I’m often mistaken for Nicole Kidman.’
‘I can see that,’ Walter said earnestly. Anita started to feel hemmed in, felt the gaze of two men in the tiny space, and said to herself, Leave now before you feel obliged to be kind to them, trouble is not in your plan. The last stalker who presumed to insert himself into her life she found hanging from her doorknocker by his collar one day when she arrived home. The lonely stalker, his nose swollen and bleeding, thrust a bunch of flowers at her and said, ‘I met your flatmate.’ This led to the subsequent unanticipated, incriminating visit from the police . . . which led to an assault charge and a trafficking stolen goods charge for her ‘flatmate’, Ray, and a handling stolen goods charge for herself, hence the probation.
‘I’m off now,’ Anita said, grabbing her work basket. The two bachelors followed her to the front door, drawn along as if they were attached to her with fishing line, leaving Margery in her chair. Above her, the wall hanging said, Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. She fought her jealousy as her special, precious boy shadowed the home help up the hall. She had sat next to Walter, stayed awake talking to him for days; she had not let him die alone. She’d saved him, twice.
Walter reached out and tugged the car door, but it resisted – it was locked. His fingers flipped out of the handle, sending him back a few spaces. ‘Oops,’ Anita said, unlocking her door and slipping into the driver’s seat. She pulled it shut and started the car, but Kevin was leaning on the window, motioning her to wind it down, so she did just a bit, the engine rumbling. ‘I know you from somewhere, I wouldn’t forget someone like you.’
Walter leaned down, told her through the same small opening that Judith wanted to put Mumsy in a home, but it wasn’t necessary since the government wanted old people to stay at home. ‘I know,’ Anita said, inching her car away from the kerb.
‘We should go out for a countery some time,’ Walter persisted, ‘talk about the house renovations over a pot and parma. My shout.’
‘I’ll come too,’ said Kevin, but she drove off, leaving the two ageing bachelors on the footpath watching her car until it turned the corner. They sighed, looked at the glorious world around them and wandered toward the house.
‘Yep-see-dep-see,’ Walter said, and Kevin mentioned she was ‘a bit of alright’. ‘I saw her first,’ Walter said.
They were sitting in the front pew looking at Mrs Parsons’ tiny coffin, Margery dozing under her hat, Walter humming the tune to ‘You Were Always On My Mind,’ Kevin gazing open-mouthed at the majestic ceiling beams tainted pink, blue and golden in the candlelit leadlight. Beside him, Pat stared at the coffin, confused. She scratched her head, skewing her wig, just as the priest emerged from his vestiary. He recognised Pat immediately. ‘Welcome, Mrs Cruickshank, how nice to see you.’
Pat turned to Kevin, ‘Am I dead?’
‘Not quite,’ he said, and his mother turned again to the coffin.
The priest had only just started the first prayer when Pat nudged Kevin, ‘Why did you bring me to this place?’
‘Shush, Mum.’
‘I don’t want to be here.’ She grabbed her walking stick and marched out, calling, ‘I know why you’ve brought me here and I’m not going.’
Kevin locked her in the car and arrived back just as Sister Bernadette signalled Walter to get up and sing his song. He stood next to Mrs Parsons’ coffin, closed his eyes, raised his arm, adjusting the imaginary gemstone rings on his fingers, opened his mouth to sing, and outside the car horn blared, Tooot. Tooooooooot.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Kevin said and stomped out, only to come back in and announce that Pat needed to go to the toilet, so the nuns went to get her but she refused to go, clinging to the inside doorhandle and shouting through the windscreen, ‘I know what you’re up to, but I’m not going yet!’
Kevin said he’d had enough, but Walter wanted to sing, so he sang ‘You Were Always On My Mind’ in his lovely nut-and-honey baritone to Mrs Parsons’ tidy little pine coffin, and the priest said it was as good as, if not better than, Elvis would have sung it.
In the car Pat said, ‘Where are we going now?’
‘Home.’
‘Liar.’
‘Let’s have a nice cuppa,’ Walter said.
‘Bugger the bloody cuppa,’ Pat said. ‘I’ll have beer.’
I must have dozed off. It’s after midnight according to the electric clock over there. We were up to Mrs Parsons’ funeral, weren’t we? Pat wore floral, but she’s always been the blowzy type. She thinks she’s glamorous. Walter got really serious about Anita that day. I went to my room for something, I’ve forgotten what, and I happened to overhear him ask her out for a counter meal. At the time I was pleased for him, told myself he needed a nice friend. She’s not my type, as I say, but Walter’s fond of her so I thought, Well, we’ll just work with what we’ve got, because it’s proved impossible for him to find lasting affection. Morris once told him he looked like he’d walked into a bookshelf. He had a beautiful face before the boxing, and even though he’s put on a bit of condition he still looks terrific. He reminds me of Lance before the drink got him.
Of course, if the truth be known, the drink got them all. It’s that pub. Grog got Pat’s Bill too. Kevin said it was the war that got him, but I watched people walk to that pub and stagger home for sixty years, and you can’t tell me it was the war that got them all. Lance and Bill were good mates. Right up to the end, and I mean the very end, when they tottered off to the pub with Lance’s little oxygen cart squeaking along behind them.
Anyrate, it was a very plain coffin, and small, like Mrs Parsons. I hoped the nuns had got her hair right, and I hoped they’d dressed her in something warm. Pat was right about the tropical blood. With a name like Poinciana Euphemia, you’d have to be foreign.
Mrs Parsons believed in God. She obviously didn’t think he was unjust, even with all that business of her confiscated child. And given the number of unnecessary and cruel deaths in the world, personally, I can’t see how anyone wouldn’t see that God was unjust. I suppose it’s a shocking thing for someone like me, someone upright, decent and honest, to come right out and say I don’t believe in God. Why would I? He took you. And what had you done?